Night, you look a lot smaller on television. Still, I flourished, suddenly, then I didn’t. Beware of food. The skinny one is my co pilot, La Flaca, phantom landlord, white palm where the stars succumb. I was to be the jugular in some drowned anatomy. I thought, "Why not?" I am I think because of the rustle hunting me.

I cannot justify or can but won`t. Oh parking lot, be fair. I`m your only pilgrim. Called by your consoling flatness to collapse. Conquest la de da. Indiscreetly kicking up dust, as if we were real. Go ahead Poem, smoke me. I`m home.

I wondered at the clover that made up the perimeter’d picture frame. For so long I had bought into being a mascot to the bigger limmerickers. It was a slow dab at my phosphorescents that made my sole transition less difficult. A sharp wind whisped the clover to cliffside memories and my legs went through the frame, one, then the other. And I lifted the frame to my mid-section, it glomming at the starch and flour sacks tied to my waist, like satchels. Ah! The natural agreeableness of the clover navigated its diamond form to accommodate these necessary fats. I felt it synchronize and the love milked, casked, and mammaried through my pulsing brain like ocean on sand. Sightless clover, make your way, Make Your Way Brother. A tidy memory of my billie-goat doing a hoof’d jig in the morning criss-crossed my headspace. Into vice went the clover and everything was understood. I jacked the frame thru and up, over my head, ungrasped – it bolted like a lunar module into the valley below.